Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  The South Viewing Platform couldn’t be far, we agreed. I didn’t think we would be able to view the puffin colony in this soupy weather, but we went on. “Watch your step,” I warned. “The trail may get slick.” I kept telling myself that we’d be all right because we were staying back from the edge—but the increasing winds worried me. I suspected the warning at the car park had changed now, and no one else was being allowed to come up on the cliffs. The more comforting thought was that the viewing platform with all of its protections would be a safe place to wait until the winds died down, the rain stopped, and the sun came out. Surely that would happen, given Ireland’s changeable weather.

  “Is that Doreen?” Helen said.

  Yes, it was Doreen, coming toward us at a speed I feared was dangerous, given the slick trail. She barely slowed down when she saw us, but she called out, “I’m going to find a Ranger! It’s Mr. Sweeney!”

  “What happened? Is he hurt?” I wouldn’t even think of a fall over the edge.

  “No!” she cried. “He’s gone stone mad!”

  CHAPTER 23

  Mr. Sweeney’s manic voice rang out above the blustery winds. “Just say it! Admit what you did to my boy!”

  I blinked, wiped the rain from my eyes, and blinked again, trying to get my mind wrapped around what I was seeing. On a point that jutted out above the boiling sea, Mr. Sweeney had Ian backed up to the edge and was jabbing at him with a sword. A toy sword! Like those the little boys had at the Visitors Centre, I realized, but he used it with the skill of an expert fencer. His stance—right foot out, left arm back—and his technique marked him as someone with experience. His quick movements with his sword arm made it impossible for Ian to grab onto the hard plastic blade or move away from the ledge.

  “It’s not true, Mr. Sweeney, I swear to God,” Ian pleaded. “I tried to be a friend to Tim.”

  “You perverted him!” Mr. Sweeney made another thrust. Another inch and he would have prodded Ian’s midsection with the tip of the sword. I had never realized what a big man Mr. Sweeney was. But now he was not the hunched-over figure I was accustomed to seeing at Shepherds. He was in command, and he towered several inches over Ian.

  “Mother of God! You’re going to kill me, man! Shove me over the damn edge!” Ian said.

  “Just tell the truth is all I want—admit you’re a fag!” Mr. Sweeney spat the word. “You perverted my boy, and he couldn’t live knowing what he was! Say it. Say it!”

  Molly, a safe distance from the ledge, cried out, “Say whatever he wants, Ian! It doesn’t matter. Do what he says!”

  “No! I am not gay, and I never touched your son. He was a troubled boy, Mr. Sweeney, trying to figure out complicated things about life. He talked to me, and I wish I could’ve helped him. God knows I wish I could’ve done something.”

  “I saw your website. That picture of Tim reading verses, out under a tree.” Mr. Sweeney’s voice was full of contempt. “Oh, I found those vulgar verses he wrote.”

  Ian continued to deny the accusations, insisting he never knew about any such verses. The rain grew heavier. Maybe Mr. Sweeney was only trying to scare Ian into an admission, not intending to kill him, but just one false step backward, and Ian would plunge to his death.

  “I didn’t even know when Tim died, Mr. Sweeney. I was in the States for a month. But I’m sorrier than I can ever say about what happened. Believe me, please.” Ian’s equanimity was admirable. Amazing, really. Surely his heart was thrumming even faster than mine.

  “Where you were means nothing. You drove him to take his own life. Same as murder.” Mr. Sweeney feigned another attack, but this one lacked the energy of the others.

  After we’d met Doreen rushing to find a Ranger, I’d left Alex and Helen behind, cautioning them again about the wet trail, and I had hurried on with as much speed as I dared. Now they came up behind me. I heard Helen’s excited voice, and I turned, raising a halting hand. Maybe Ian was close to convincing Mr. Sweeney to back off. The man seemed to be out of touch with reality. I didn’t know what the effect might be if he realized that he had several onlookers. Not just those of us from Shepherds, but a handful of strangers. All of us watching in disbelief.

  “Broke his mother’s heart. Broke her spirit. I lost them both.” At the mention of his wife, Mr. Sweeney’s voice cracked. He seemed close to tears. I prayed he was close to letting Ian go.

  Ian tried to take a step forward, but Mr. Sweeney’s quick thrust prevented it. Ian raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I cannot begin to imagine your loss, sir. I would love to tell you about Tim, the way I knew him as my student. Not any other way, I swear. Please, Mr. Sweeney.” Ian’s voice was so rich with genuine compassion that only a certified sociopath could have lied with such sincerely.

  I was close enough to see the transformation in Mr. Sweeney’s face. He believed Ian.

  But his sword did not waver. A tense moment passed. His face crumpled. That, maybe, was as near to crying as he would get. A sound, something like soft keening, came from his throat, and then, after a moment, he regained his composure. He took the sword in his left hand and reached under his flapping windbreaker with his right.

  And there he was, gun in one hand, sword in the other. He kept the sword pointed at Ian but made a sweeping motion with the gun.

  The small, dark weapon—presumably a revolver—brought a flashback that I would not let settle into my consciousness. I had lived through that, in Provence. I heard noises around me—muffled cries, Oh no! I thought I recognized Molly’s Please don’t! I saw some of the strangers moving farther back, as if they expected this man to open fire on all of us. I kept clinging to the belief that Mr. Sweeney did not want to kill anyone, that the steel in his hand was simply the reaction of a private investigator asserting his authority over the tense situation, the response that felt familiar. I was aware of Alex brushing my arm as he passed beside me.

  “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Sweeney.” Alex was calm, not at all threatening, very much the professor.

  Mr. Sweeney glared at Alex, no more than four feet from him, and then his gaze darted back to Ian. “I never meant—if I’d wanted you dead, you would be!” Words that had appeared on Ian’s website. Now we knew with certainty who the shooter had been. But was it too late?

  “You’re not a killer. You have not gone too far yet.” Alex placed considerable emphasis on the last word.

  “Someone must pay!” Mr. Sweeney said, still managing both the gun and sword. Anguish flooded into his face as he said it again, “Someone must pay!”

  “Mr. Sweeney, no one is to blame for your son’s death,” Alex said, his voice infinitely patient. “Please, think about what you’re doing. Put down the weapons.”

  It was the longest moment, a space of absolute silence. The wind had died down, and what had turned back into a fine mist made no sound at all. And then came the high-pitched voice of a child. “Look! Mam, look!” Of all times for the mother and boys we’d seen at the Visitors Centre to appear on the scene.

  Mr. Sweeney lowered his arm, and the tip of the sword touched the ground.

  Ian might have moved away from the cliff edge, but he seemed frozen in place, like the rest of us.

  Mr. Sweeney said, “I never thought it would come to this.” He mumbled something I couldn’t make out except the last words: “You’ll see.” And then he raised the revolver to his temple.

  Almost simultaneously, the sounds collided. The mother called out to the little boy, “No, Tim!” Helen shrieked, and a gunshot pierced the air.

  Would it have made any difference if the Ranger had arrived a minute sooner? Probably not. He had called for assistance as soon as Doreen reported the situation. The Guards and emergency medical personnel were on their way, and would we all please stay back, just remain as we were for the moment, the Ranger said. He pushed the gun aside with his foot and hurried to Mr. Sweeney. Alex, crouching on the other side of the motionless figure, pressed his handkerchief against Mr. Sweeney’s head
. He said in a raspy voice, “He’s alive.”

  The Ranger felt for a pulse and nodded. His expression seemed to indicate that it was a miracle the man was alive, and perhaps it was that, a miracle. From a kit, he retrieved a thin cover for Mr. Sweeney that looked like windbreaker material, and he provided Alex with a clean cloth in place of the bloody handkerchief, but it was apparent he had no medical expertise equal to this task. He picked up the gun and secured it in a plastic bag, also from his kit.

  Alex remained kneeling at Mr. Sweeney’s side as the Ranger made a call on his cell phone, keeping his voice low. Those of us from Shepherds would not have considered leaving, but the other witnesses had already slipped away before the Ranger arrived, except for one elderly couple and the woman with the two little boys, one named Tim. Given the mother’s distress and the children’s ages, apparently, the Ranger allowed them to go back to the Visitors Centre and wait for further questioning. My heart went out to her as they left, the younger boy wailing, begging to go home.

  They might have saved Mr. Sweeney’s life. As that horrific moment replayed itself in my mind, I could see that Mr. Sweeney, gun at his temple, must have flinched when he heard, “No, Tim!” The movement was ever so slight. Just enough so that his aim was off, maybe just a fraction of an inch but enough so that death was not instantaneous. He might still die. He probably would still die, I told myself. How could he possibly live after sustaining a gunshot wound to the head? I felt tears sting my eyes, thinking of the grieving man, so steeped in sorrow, so obsessed with revenge—and seeing no other way out when retribution seemed it would not ease his pain.

  Helen, who appeared to have a sprained ankle, sat on a large rock that looked awfully uncomfortable, with her leg stretched out. The little boy had crashed into her and her foot had slipped, turning her ankle. She pulled a silk scarf from a zippered pocket of her rain jacket. “Would you mind terribly, wrapping my ankle, Jordan?” she asked. I was glad to do something useful. The scarf was hardly as effective as an elastic bandage, but it was better than nothing.

  Doreen arrived shortly behind the Ranger and began to ask questions. She’d heard the gunshot. “I prayed it was not Ian that was shot, and I prayed for Molly,” she said. “Was it cruel of me not to have prayed for Mr. Sweeney, in his state of madness?”

  “You could have sent up a prayer for me,” Helen said with mock severity.

  “You’ll be all right,” Doreen said. “Next time wear some sensible shoes.”

  Just a few steps away, Molly leaned into Ian’s arms, weeping. I expected Doreen to rush to her daughter, but she didn’t.

  I never thought to check my watch, but things happened as quickly as we could have expected. Within minutes two EMT-type men arrived. They gave Mr. Sweeney some immediate attention, put him on a gurney, and took him away.

  Alex, who had been squatting, had trouble standing up. The Ranger helped him up and found some wipes in his kit for the blood on Alex’s hands. “Must have been a friend of yours,” he said, and Alex nodded.

  The Ranger said, “The Guards are at the Visitors Centre, so we can go down now.” He glanced at Helen and asked if she could walk. I told him we’d help her, and Doreen and I did. The elderly couple hurried on, ahead of the Ranger. The rest of us proceeded at a slow pace.

  A heavy quiet settled over our somber little band as we went down the cliff path.

  The sun was trying to peek from the clouds by the time we came down from the Main Viewing Platform. We might have seen the puffin colony, after all, if that had been on anyone’s mind. We’d met some officials with equipment going that way. Crime scene investigators, I imagined. Someone was putting up a sign, saying the trail to the South Viewing Platform was closed.

  A wide-eyed Finn met us, asking what had happened. He’d seen the ambulance leave and knew a man had shot himself, but he didn’t know who it was until we told him. His exclamation may have been a string of Gaelic swearwords. “Why? Was he mad?” Finn wanted to know.

  No one answered. “The authorities are waiting to talk to us,” I said. Why was not something that could be explained in a sentence, and Finn didn’t press the issue. Following our group toward the Visitors Centre, he asked about Helen’s foot. “Not to worry,” she said. “Just an annoying sprain.”

  When the Ranger led us to a restricted area inside the building, Finn left us, promising he’d call Colin and Grace.

  One by one, we were questioned by two Guards, one older, one younger, in a well-appointed office. I had a fleeting thought: How many Guards had I met on this trip? The mother with the little boys and the elderly couple must have spoken with the Guards while we were still making our way down from the cliff trail. We never saw them again. Ian’s interview took the longest. The rest of us waited in an area that might have been a lounge for employees until we were called. The Ranger made tea for us and applied a real bandage to Helen’s ankle.

  My turn came after the interviews with Alex and Molly. I had come upon the scene late, I said. I tried to remember what I’d heard Mr. Sweeney say. None of my report caused a reaction from the Guards. I had simply confirmed Ian’s story. There were no questions about the shootings that had occurred in Thurles and at the Hedge School. My interview was brief.

  The Ranger left the room to assist Helen when it was time for her interview, and he didn’t return until he came to say we could all go. Not much conversation had taken place while he was with us. Maybe everyone else felt as I did, that rehashing what we knew about Mr. Sweeney would only complicate matters and we might be detained even longer. Maybe we were all still too shocked to make sense of anything, and silence seemed more comforting than talk.

  Alex and Ian both looked bedraggled. I hadn’t looked closely at myself. My hair must have been a sight, first wet and then plastered under my hood, and my makeup had disappeared, with the wind blowing the rain against my face. Molly had the benefit of her fresh, youthful face, and Doreen had come through the ordeal looking exceptionally well. Ian’s tousled curls gave him a boyish appearance, but the haunted look in his eyes told that he was suffering. I was worried about Alex. He looked like a man carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders as he bent over his tea and stared into his teacup, stirring aimlessly. The cup was still nearly full. The tea had to be lukewarm by now.

  “Can I heat that up for you?” I said.

  “No thanks,” he said, laying his spoon on the saucer.

  “Tea is the best medicine,” Doreen said.

  Alex smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think you’re fine at all,” Doreen said.

  She had missed the role Alex had played in the incident, but she was perceptive enough to ask, “You’re not thinking you could have done something for Mr. Sweeney, are you?”

  The straightforward question made Alex blink, as if he were coming out of a daze. He said, “I wish I could have done something, yes.”

  “You tried, Alex. You’re the only one of us who tried,” I said. I told Doreen that Alex had persuaded Mr. Sweeney to put down the sword. Ian was safe because of Alex.

  Ian, who was sitting at the end of the table across from Molly, said, “It’s true. It was a pivotal moment there. Even though he had a gun, I knew he would not harm me.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know what happened.” Alex rubbed his face. “Something came over him.”

  “You did what you could,” I said, and the others agreed.

  Alex must have felt that he was becoming too much the center of attention. I’d seen it happen before. He waved away our comments. “A tragedy none of us will forget,” he said with a note of finality. He stood up, picked up his cup and saucer, and went to the tea kettle.

  Doreen, Ian, and Molly began to talk about their return trip to Dublin by train. I made myself another cup of tea. As Alex and I stood over the tea kettle, I said, “I wonder if he’ll live.”

  “And, if he does, will he ever be—normal?” Alex finished my thought.

  “I keep going over and
over it in my mind,” I said. Alex gave an earnest nod. He would have more to remember, I knew. Whatever it was that the gunshot did to Mr. Sweeney’s head. The blood. The expression on Mr. Sweeney’s face, whatever that might have been. Alex was right there, up close and personal.

  “Do you remember his last words, Alex? I’ve been thinking about what he said.”

  “He said, ‘I never thought it would come to this.’ ”

  “And then something else I couldn’t quite make out, and then, ‘You’ll see.’ ”

  Alex frowned, nodding, looking as if it might be close to remembering.

  I kept trying to work it out. “What could he have meant by ‘You’ll see.’ Did he mean that we’d see when he’d shot himself? What would we see? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “None of it does,” Alex said.

  I repeated. “ ‘I never thought it would come to this.’ then . . . something, and ‘You’ll see.’ ”

  Alex gave a little chuckle with no mirth in it. “It sounded a little like sin.”

  Somehow I believed it was important, though I didn’t know why.

  A few minutes later we were finished with our interviews and released to go home. Helen would ride in the passenger seat next to Finn, as it was the easiest seat to access. Alex and I waited for Ian and the Quinn ladies to load up and climb into the back seat. As I took a step toward the door of the van, I felt Alex’s hand on my arm. “I kept thinking it would come to me,” he said, “and it did.”

  “What?”

  “What Mr. Sweeney said. ‘I never thought it would come to this. It’s in my notepad. You’ll see.’ Sounded like Sin my notepad.”

  I made a little oh sound. “He was a private investigator. Of course he kept a notepad.

  CHAPTER 24

  Our drive through Limerick, with the sun setting behind charming old buildings, made me wish we had scheduled a day trip here. But our time in Ireland was just about up, only one day left, and with today’s tragedy so heavy on us, sightseeing was no longer a priority—not for me and not for Alex, I was certain. Finn had said, on the way to the Cliffs of Moher, that we’d make a quick tour of Limerick on our return trip. He did not mention it this evening, nor did anyone else.